Titration
by PoisonComeUndone
Summary: Holmes/Watson; Granada!verse; Devil's Foot oneshot.  Out of all the times Watson's lectured him about the cocaine, none of it could worry him as much as one kiss.


I realized I'm an idiot and had no reference to _exactly_ where this was from, but it's just a little outtake type fic from Devil's Foot, ^^

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By the time the sharp buzz of the cocaine was beginning to fade, Watson still had not emerged from the bedroom he'd vanished into immediately following Mr. Roundhay's departure. He had, according to his own mumbled words before disappearing into the room, been intending to unpack. However, there had been little actual sounds of movement from the room for at least a good half hour, and even now the rustle of clothing and slide of drawers was slow enough to be uncharacteristic. It had seemed wise to give him some time, initially, but now with the ebb of stimulant from his veins and the still stubbornly closed door it seemed the time to coax Watson into conversation.

He rose from the chair nimbly, blanket clutched tight around his shoulders, and though he spared a look for the box lying on the table before him, he didn't move it. His efforts to hide it before had, obviously, been in vain, but Watson had said nothing and known better than to reach for it. It made little sense to hide it now. At the door he did hesitate, fingers brushing over the wood grain, almost caressing chipping paint before pushing the door open.

Watson stood at the chest of drawers, by all appearances diligently folding one of his own white shirts. His folds, however, usually so impeccable, were haphazard. He shoved it into the drawer all the same, without looking up, and Holmes crossed silently over the window, shifting his grip on the blanket to one hand to enable him to press his palm to the glass. It was cool to the touch, lacking too hard of a chill but just enough to make him shiver. Lately it seemed, he was rarely warm.

"Perhaps there is some truth in what you say, Watson. There is something in the breathing of country air that seems to do more than its expected share of good." There was nothing like the bustle of London, ever teeming and simmering, even as it spread. Despite any claims made in abject frustration he would have never desired to truly leave it. For the time being, however, though he had been reluctant to admit it from the comfort of their rooms in Baker Street, he was not well and had not been for some time, and the oppressive damp of the fog did his weakened state no good.

Watson hummed a response, low and noncommittal. Without looking behind him, he heard Watson shake out another shirt.

"It has been some time since we had occasion to visit Cornwall. Do you remember, the cook's daughter?" The mystery itself had proved unworthy of much attention and certainly unworthy of Watson's chronicles, but the time by the sea he still remembered. They had walked on the sand with storm clouds on the horizon, and he had slowed his own frantic pace to keep Watson from over exerting his leg, already paining him with the change in weather.

"Yes, I remember, Holmes." The words were murmured soft, almost an afterthought. Less irritation and more resignation, just as the look Watson had given him upon entering the cottage to see the box on the table had been. His brow creased, palm pressing harder against the glass. It wasn't warming to his touch, his hands cold enough of their own accord to prevent it.

A drawer shut behind him, and he turned almost precisely with the sound, crossing the space between them with quick steps to bring himself close enough to curl his fingers in Watson's sleeve, effectively stopping his movements as he made to draw his hands away from the brass handles. Still, he did not look up.

"_Watson_." That, at least, earned him a flicker of a glance from eyes that were far too guarded, and his unclenched his grip, hand fluttering to rest against his chest. Through the layers between he could not feel his heartbeat but he knew it was there, the memory of countless nights with the only lover he had ever cared to take bringing the exact cadence of it freely to mind. He released the clasp on the blanket he'd still held with his right hand, intending to turn Watson to face him, but he found his hand brushed away as Watson turned on his own, reaching up to take Holmes face in his hands. Watson's thumbs traced over his cheekbones, a familiar action with unfamiliar intent, something in his very touch reticent and distracted. Though he brought his lips to Holmes' in a soft kiss it was hardly more than a deliberate brush, pulling away the moment Holmes parted his lips in an effort to kiss him in earnest.

He stepped back, disengaging almost completely, his hands lingering on Holmes only long enough to slide down and straighten the blanket around his shoulders.

"We've had quite the journey. You should rest, if you can. All that traveling in an open carriage can't have been good for your condition."

Without another word and hardly a last glance he was gone, slipping out into the sitting room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. Holmes' fist pressed against his lips, the faintest of sparks still tingling there despite the briefness of their contact. It seemed a great deal of time had passed since the first time Watson had kissed him, still damp from the river and with the heat of the fire licking against their chill as they stood arguing next to the hearth in their rooms. Since then there had been countless others, from easy and languid as he stretched beside Watson in his bed, blankets sliding unheeded from the mattress to grudging, frustrated acquiescence on his part, Watson pressed firmly against him in a too small closest while waiting for the appearance of a suspect.

In all of that time, Watson had never kissed him like had a moment before. There was a halfhearted distance to it that had nothing to do with Watson's haste, and more than any lecture from the doctor he had ever received, it disturbed him. In the past Holmes had written his concern off as an altogether irrelevant mixture of overprotection and the overreaction of any medical man to less than conventional use of drugs, however now…

Behavior never changed without cause and effect. Almost invariably, at least. Watson's sudden swing from anger to resignation could hardly have established itself unprovoked. Something had changed, either in Watson's patience or his own substance use. Logically, if Watson believed his condition brought on by the drugs he would have spoken up before now, and as he had not the answer had to lie in something simpler, and at once infinitely more complex. Given that he knew enough of Watson's patience to know it was near innumerable, his remaining option to examine loomed over him, less than promising to consider to say the least.

He let out a slow breath, hauled the blanket up a little higher around his neck before yanking open the bedroom door. He didn't bother to shut it, focused instead on fishing with nimble fingers in his coat pocket for his cigarette case. He needed to smoke, and he needed to think, and at that moment he could do neither of those things sitting in a room Watson had just walked out of.

"Holmes?" There _was_ something startled in his voice then, a lurch of concern that was enough to give him pause, and though he did not turn he took the moment to light his cigarette from a candle near the door. After the first drag, he resumed his steps.

"I am quite alright, Watson. I daresay I won't be long." He shut the door without waiting for a reply, breathed in the sharp tang of sea air and let his eyes flicker to the position of the sun. An hour or two's walk, at least, and then he would return, provided he felt none of the keen exhaustion that had prompted Watson to seek medical attention for him in the first place.

When he reached the cottage again, at the very least he would've had a chance to determine precisely what options he had to consider.

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End file.
